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  “MTF?”

  “Must Touch Flesh.” Grace smiled, remembering the incident. “Then Ross said that it was probably my own fault anyway for having such a pinchable bum.”

  Over the rim of her coffee cup Mattie gravely regarded the back of her daughter’s head. “I hope he managed to keep his hands off you, at least.”

  “Mum!” said Grace, scandalized. “He’s the manager! Anyway, he had enough problems of his own this evening. He brought a new girlfriend along to the hotel, and that mistress of his, Antonia Seymour-Smith, was there with her husband Richard. Well, Antonia must have been really jealous because she went right up to the new girlfriend and told her—in front of Ross and some of the guests—all about their affair.”

  Some people never change, thought Mattie. Aloud she said: “And what happened then?”

  “I couldn’t hear all of it, I wasn’t close enough. The new girlfriend didn’t say much, but Ross dragged Antonia through to the bar and dumped her on Richard, telling him that his wife was drunk and that it was time she went home. Of course Antonia couldn’t argue because Richard doesn’t know about the affair, so she had to shut up. They left, and five minutes later, Ross’s girlfriend disappeared with Max. Holly, one of the receptionists, went with them.”

  “Just like a soap opera,” remarked Mattie idly. “Was Ross furious?”

  “Mad as hell.” Grace was sounding positively delighted. “He tried to stop the girl leaving, but she wouldn’t even speak to him. And he was so cross with Antonia that he’s not going to want her anymore…”

  “Well, well. Don’t some people lead complicated lives.” Mattie felt she’d heard enough about Ross Monahan for one evening. “Look, that nice film’s ended. Are you ready for something to eat before bed, darling? How about some nice baked ham and pickles?”

  Chapter 8

  The snow looked so gorgeous, thought Tessa, why on earth did it have to go and spoil itself by being so damn cold?

  Rubbing her gloved hands together and blowing on her wrists, she surveyed the narrow lane ahead, banked high on either side with drifts of snow like frozen waves and more suited to a bobsled than to the bicycle that was her only available form of transport.

  Still, all she had to do was wheel the bike down this lane. As soon as she met the main road, she reminded herself, she’d be fine. And cycling into the center of Bath was going to be a hell of a lot easier than either walking it or waiting for a country bus that might never arrive.

  Tessa was pleased to discover that she had been right. Pushing the bike downhill was no problem, and when she reached the junction she saw that the main road had indeed been lavishly gritted. What had been snow was now charcoal-gray slush, less picturesque but immeasurably easier to negotiate. Her toes numb with cold and her breath materializing as opalescent clouds before her, she swung her leg over the crossbar and pushed cautiously out into the traffic.

  Less than two minutes later, the bicycle, mangled and crushed almost beyond recognition, catapulted into the ditch. The articulated truck, undamaged, skidded to a halt twenty yards further down the road.

  The truck driver, realizing that he was sliding out of control, had managed to sound his horn just in time. Tessa, glancing over her shoulder, had seen the monster behind her, felt the first brush of its chrome bumper against her rear wheel, and taken a flying leap in the direction of the snowpacked left-hand shoulder.

  When she later recovered her sense of humor, she recognized the irony of narrowly avoiding a truck carrying several thousand tins of dog food. At the time, it was a toss-up which of them was the more shaken by the accident, herself or the driver of the truck.

  “Bleedin’ ’ell,” he croaked, white-faced and trembling. “I thought you’d gone under the wheels. You OK, love? I just lost control. Bleedin’ ’ell.”

  Tessa had actually had a pretty soft, if cold, landing. Accepting the truck driver’s clammy outstretched hand and pulling herself to her feet, she nodded and managed a ghost of a smile. “I think I’m fine. Nothing broken, anyway. And don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.” She wondered whether she should go and see her local doctor. When accidents like this happened in television serials the pregnant mother invariably collapsed, clutching her stomach and screaming: “Oh God, the baby.”

  In reality, however, she felt perfectly OK. “The bike’s looking a bit wrinkled,” she observed, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her faded denims and starting to shiver. “I don’t think I’ll be getting far on that. Look, if you could give me a lift to my friend’s house I’d be awfully grateful.” The truck would never have managed to squeeze along the narrow, snow-choked lane to her cottage, but Holly would hopefully be able to give her a lift home later.

  “’Course I will, love. Come on, give us yer arm. Bleedin’ ’ell, I really thought you were done for. Gave me a ’elluva turn.”

  • • •

  All Tessa appeared to want was to carry on with her own life in her own way, and Holly, though convinced that her friend was quite mad, had until now been prepared to humor her.

  But the very calmness with which Tessa had relayed the story of the accident that could so easily have had tragic—if not fatal—consequences infuriated Holly beyond belief.

  And when she arrived at The Grange later that same afternoon to find Ross in reception, engrossed in a far-from-businesslike tête-à-tête with the pouting Swedish girlfriend of a rock star currently staying at the hotel, her anger knew no bounds. Looking at Ross, in a charcoal-gray suit that must have cost hundreds of pounds, a green-and-gray pin-striped shirt, and highly polished Italian leather shoes, with his out-of-season tan and expensively casual haircut, and at the Swedish girl’s floor-length leather coat the color of beech leaves, she was overwhelmed by the absolute unfairness of it all. Holly would be the last person in the world to describe herself as a Socialist, but at this precise moment she experienced a surge of longing to strip Ross of his carefree, overprivileged lifestyle and spectacular wealth and shower it instead upon all those who needed and deserved it so much more than he did.

  As she stood there watching them, Ross glanced up and saw her. Normally he would have greeted Holly with a grin and a brief exchange of banter, teasing her about whatever new outfit she might be wearing or remarking upon her hairstyle. But at that moment the girl in the leather coat leaned forward and reached up on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear, huge diamonds flashing as she rested her left hand against his chest. Ross returned his attention to her, ignoring Holly, and that was the final kick in the teeth, the ultimate insult. Quivering with rage on Tessa’s behalf, because Tessa would never dream of causing a scene on her own behalf and that was why she was trapped in her world, so very different from Ross’s, Holly ripped off her raspberry-pink cashmere jacket, slammed it down on the reception desk, and marched over to Ross and the girl.

  “Holly! Heavens, you look cross. More problems with those Italians in the Berkeley Suite?”

  She took a deep breath. “I just want you to know, Mr. Monahan, that while you’ve been here, canoodling in comfort and having fun”—she hissed the word fun through gritted teeth—“I have been with Tessa. She was almost killed today when her bicycle was crushed by a truck. She’s extremely lucky to be alive…” Faltering, Holly realized that she hadn’t planned her diatribe in advance. Spontaneity was all very well, but now she was stuck. The horrified expression on Ross’s face, though, was most gratifying.

  “…I just thought you should know, that’s all,” she concluded in triumph as a distinct pallor invaded his deep tan. Then, turning to the Swedish girl, she added in a voice loaded with meaning, “After all, they were close. Once.”

  • • •

  Ross, pulling up outside the cottage, thought at first that Tessa was out. Then he realized that although no lights were on, a faint amber glow was discernible through the downstairs windows. She must be watching television in the dar
k.

  “Oh God, not again,” said Tessa, when she saw who it was.

  “Lovely to see you too,” he retaliated, wounded by her lack of enthusiasm. Then he held up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry. I came to see how you were. May I come in?”

  “Good old Holly.” Tessa, aware of how ungracious she was sounding but forced to do something to conceal her traitorous true feelings—a perverse form of pleasure—stood aside to allow him in. “I wouldn’t take off your jacket if I were you; I’ve had trouble with the fire. The logs are wet.”

  Ross believed her. The fire, spluttering in the fireplace, was indeed in a sorry state. He was at first intrigued to see that the subdued amber lighting came not from the television but from clusters of candles, then appalled when he realized that the candles weren’t there to create a romantic atmosphere, but to compensate for the lack of electrical power in the cottage.

  “For Christ’s sake!” he exploded, “I don’t believe this. Today you were almost killed. Tonight you’re all alone in a freezing-cold house. What the hell’s happened to the power?”

  Tessa, with some amusement, said, “Last night’s snow must have brought the lines down. Don’t you ever lose power at The Grange?”

  “We have an emergency generator.”

  She shrugged. “Well, I don’t, so maybe I’m more used to coping with it than you are. Look, why don’t you sit down? Are you hungry?”

  “No…yes,” he amended rapidly, realizing that she was inviting him to stay and eat. This small advance in their so-far volatile relationship gave him ridiculous pleasure.

  “Then sit,” instructed Tessa, disappearing into the minute, candlelit kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. Lucky I’ve got a gas oven,” she added with a grin.

  Ross didn’t sit. Instead, he prowled, admiring the skill with which she had transformed a small L-shaped sitting room into a place of charm and comfort. The ceiling, painted a deep shade of crimson, offset the whitewashed walls, which, in turn, provided the perfect backdrop for her paintings. Huge bowls of artlessly arranged dried flowers jostled for space in the deep window seats with hand-painted silk cushions and a cleverly glazed marmalade clay cat. The crimson carpet was old and faded in some places and the heavy white lace curtains slightly frayed at the edges, but the idiosyncratic mixture of brass candelabra, silver-framed photographs, stained-glass terraria, and assorted bowls of marbles, hand-painted eggs, silk flowers and trailing ferns was so welcoming that Ross felt immediately at home. Junk-shop mixtures weren’t his style at all, but Tessa had created an environment in which it was impossible to be uncomfortable.

  After stoking up the fire and at last teasing it into flames, he turned his attention to her paintings, which on his previous visit he had not had time to properly examine.

  Here were further examples of Tessa’s refusal to be pigeonholed. Intrigued and impressed, Ross first examined the largest of the oil paintings, hung above the fireplace. Executed in deep, dark colors, it depicted a mountain storm in all its uncompromising glory.

  To the right of this bold, clever piece of work hung a mistily impressionistic watercolor, and further still to the right a medium-sized oil in a plain silver frame depicted a party in an art gallery, capturing expressions on faces, moments of indiscretion, anxiety and joy, laughter, and sidelong glances with humor and wicked accuracy.

  He had always admired artists for their ability to do what he could never do himself, but he was particularly impressed by these examples of Tessa’s talent. And the variety of styles she was able to adopt—and master—further convinced him that she had a real and unusual gift. Moving around the room, he smiled at a small, as yet unframed portrait of Holly, which captured exactly her talents for outrageous dressing and having fun. Tessa hadn’t indulged in any unnecessary flattery, but her obvious affection for her subject shone through; in her electric-blue, extravagantly frilled—and filled—dress, with a pink carnation tucked behind one ear and a wide smile, Holly was shown as the original good-time saloon girl, breaking the hearts of every cowboy in town and enjoying every minute while it lasted.

  Tessa, pushing open the door with her knee and coming in with a tray, saw Ross examining the portrait.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get a Christmas card from Holly with that picture on the front,” she observed with a wry smile. “She wanted to have three hundred printed so that she could send them out to all her friends with a postscript telling them that for just two hundred pounds, they too could be captured on canvas by Tessa Duvall.”

  He took the tray from her and placed it on the low, black coffee table in front of the fire. Two plates of creamy lasagna wafted their aromatic scent of garlic and herbs, and she had opened a bottle of Chianti to accompany the meal. Knowing that Tessa had stopped drinking, Ross was touched by her hospitality.

  “It’s a good idea. You shouldn’t knock it,” he told her. “Something like that could work very well indeed.”

  Tessa shrugged. “I know. But as someone remarked the other week”—she didn’t bother to remind him who that had been, and Ross decided to ignore the oblique reference to Antonia, to pretend that she didn’t exist—“it’s too much like touting for custom. I’d feel like a prostitute selling myself… I’m afraid I find it all rather embarrassing.”

  At her insistence, he occupied the armchair while Tessa sat cross-legged on the floor. The logs had dried out now, and the fire was burning brightly. The piping-hot lasagna was delicious, the wine at just the right temperature, and the candlelight seductive. Tessa, simply dressed as always in white denims and a dark-blue V-necked lamb’s-wool sweater, with her long hair worn loose and her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire, looked infinitely desirable.

  “So, tell me what happened this morning,” said Ross, banishing such wayward thoughts firmly from his mind. “You seem to have recovered remarkably well. Did the hospital give you the all clear?”

  Tessa, swallowing a mouthful of lasagna, shook her head. “I wasn’t hurt. There was no need to see a doctor. All I did was take a flying leap into a ditch full of snow.”

  “You were riding a bicycle, for Christ’s sake!” exploded Ross, his dark eyebrows raised in despair. “In weather like this you were asking for trouble. What is it you have, some kind of death wish?”

  She grinned. “A Raleigh Sport, as a matter of fact. Or it was until earlier today.”

  “And what will you do now?” he demanded, waving his fork in the direction of the window, indicating the thick snow outside.

  Tessa tilted her head on one side, appearing to give the matter some consideration.

  “I thought I’d give it a title,” she said finally. “Maybe call it ‘Splat’ or ‘Crunch’ and exhibit it at the Tate Modern.”

  “Look,” said Ross, fixing her with dark, slanting eyes and willing her to be serious, “you can make all the jokes you want, but whether you like it or not I am concerned about your safety. You’re carrying my child, and I cannot just stand by and watch you take stupid risks with your life. With both your lives.”

  Touched by his concern, but at the same time filled with indignation that he should think so badly of her, Tessa glared back at him. “I know, I know, I should have driven into town in my new Lamborghini,” she snapped. “Ross, you don’t seem to understand. When I can afford a car I’ll buy one, but until that day comes I have to rely on something less expensive. For heaven’s sake, from the expression on your face anyone would think I’d parachuted blindfolded out of a plane. And it wasn’t my bike that caused the accident anyway; it was the truck.”

  “Is the baby really OK?” he said, changing the subject abruptly.

  Recognizing that he had taken in what she had to say, Tessa nodded. “Perfectly, as far as I can tell.”

  “You’re nearly four months now. Are you starting to show?”

  She couldn’t help smiling at this. He sounded like
a midwife. Any minute now he’d be whisking out a stethoscope and listening for the fetal heartbeat. “Yes, I’ve put on a few pounds, and my jeans won’t do up,” she assured him solemnly. “Hence the baggy sweater, which covers a multitude of sins.”

  “And your boobs are bigger,” remarked Ross, studying her chest with undisguised curiosity.

  This time Tessa burst out laughing. “Yes, my boobs are bigger. Before long I’ll have a cleavage to rival Holly’s. Pregnancy has its advantages after all!”

  Later, when they had finished eating, Ross said, “Tell me about your mysterious past. Where did you do your art training?”

  “No mysteries.” Tessa, still sitting on the floor, was peeling an orange and dividing it neatly into segments. “And no formal training. My mother encouraged me to paint when I was young and gave me constructive criticism as soon as I was old enough to cope with it. She was a great art lover, completely self-educated but with a real eye. And she was a wonderful teacher. She taught me to appreciate the magic of Van Dyck and Michelangelo, Brueghel and Canaletto when all I was interested in was Toulouse-Lautrec. When I was very young we spent whole days at a time in the National Gallery.”

  “You lived in London?” Ross sensed that tonight she was in the mood to talk. And now, more than ever, he wanted to know about Tessa’s past, to learn more, much more, about the fiercely independent girl sitting before him.

  “My father died when I was a year old. He had a brain tumor, and my mother spent that year taking care of both of us. Then there was only me to look after.” Gazing into the leaping flames, she paused for a few seconds, lost in thought, then shrugged and offered him a peeled orange segment. “When I was seven Mum met a man, an artist. He was big and handsome, with long, blond hair and a dark mustache, and his name was Tom Charteris. We both adored him, but like a lot of artists he was selfish. Arrogant. He allowed Mum to support him for a few months, then he left her for a woman who could afford to keep him in more style. Mum was devastated because she’d believed in him, done everything she could for him. She couldn’t believe that he’d dumped her. That was when we moved to Bath. She got a job as a live-in housekeeper at Holly’s parents’ home, and that was when I first met Holly. We were poles apart, of course. Suzannah and Michael King were seriously wealthy. They still are, for that matter, but even then they lived a life that was way out of our league. Holly was jet-setting all over the world with them while my mother kept their house clean, polishing their silver and dusting their Chippendale chairs. But every time they came back from Gstaad, Barbados, or New York, Holly and I would pick up our friendship where it had left off, and it was to her parents’ credit really that they didn’t attempt to separate us. I was only the housekeeper’s daughter, after all.”